On My Own
by LadyBastet92
Summary: Quasimodo always loved to pretend. But when love enters his world for the first time, he learns how cruel reality really is. Quasimodo one-shot, mainly Disney-based. Based off the song "On My Own" from Les Miserables.


**A/N: This is Disney-based, with a grain of Victor Hugo. I took a few liberties with the characters, but don't think they're that crazy. **

**This fic came out from a number of things. A couple of weeks ago, I rediscovered The Hunchback of Notre Dame. I used to watch it excessively as a child, but over time, I kind've forgot about it. Thanks to the magic of torrents, I watched it again-and fell in love with it again. I've forgotten how much I've missed this movie! With old loves rekindled, I decided to make this fic in accordance to another current obsession of mine: Les Miserables. The mingling of Victor Hugo adaptations led to this. It's not especially good, but it's nice to write something after a long time. Also, I couldn't find any recent Quasi-based fics in this section, which really surprised me. He defiantly needs more ficdom love.**

**As said, this fic is also based off the song "On My Own" from the musical version of Les Miserables. If you haven't heard it before, LOOK IT UP NOW. It's amazing. I thought it captured the gentle loneliness of Quasimodo perfectly. **

**Also, as a note: when I talk about Quasimodo's fantasies of Esmeralda, I DO NOT MEAN IT IN THAT WAY. I tried to make that clear in the story. It's supposed to be a kind of a deeper form of puppy love. Don't be making a pervert out of my favorite Disney character. If you really find the need to, go make your own fic. **

**Reviews are greatly appreciated, and I hope you enjoy my rather melancholy little piece.**

**DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING. Quasimodo and all other characters belong to Hugo and Disney, "On My Own" belongs to whoever owns the musical, and Notre Dame belongs to Paris. **

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Quasimodo loved Paris at night.

Up in his magnificent home in the bell towers of Notre Dame, Quasimodo observed all forms and aspects of life; from the young child to the old hag, from the sweltering summer to the bitter winter. With its ever-changing seasons and bustling blend of colors and noise, Paris was his living work of art. Free to look at, but never to touch. Quasimodo could only watch life move on without him from the sanctuary of his cathedral. As time passed, he watched babies become children, and children become lovers. Paris was an ever-churning wheel, while Notre Dame was an unmoving rock. As everything changed outside its venerable and ordinate walls, everything remained the same on the inside. Having been forced to live a solitary existence, all his life Quasimodo had been fascinated by the living; by those who were free to roam wherever they may choose.

But as much as he enjoyed watching the world outside his tower, sometimes it became too much to bear. He would feel the desperate yearning within him, firmly tugging at him, threatening to tear him apart. His greatest desire was to be a part of this living work of art- but he knew that he never could be. The mere thought him of entering into this foreign world seemed to Quasimodo like making a large, unsightly smudge across his imaginative canvas. It was almost a sin to do. Besides, he would never be accepted. He would only be considered a mistake. He didn't deserve to be part of that world.

Most of the time, he could put away these unhappy thoughts and enter the world of his wonderful fantasies. To a world where he wasn't ugly. To a world where no one laughed or stared. To a world where he belonged.

But when Quasimodo was awakened by the harsh slap of reality, he stopped starring longingly at the world below, and instead hid from it. He would busy himself by performing his duties, ringing his bells, making his figurines. Anything to silence that desperate cry within him that longed for normality, acceptance, freedom. To quiet that melancholy dream when it became most unbearable, he would remind himself what he really was-a monster. That was all he was, and all he would ever be. He'd murmur to himself as he caught the reflection of himself from the inside of a bell or a corner of his covered mirror, reminding himself as his Master had done so many times before-that he was only a monster.

But at night, he didn't have to hide. Night was the most beautiful time of the day for him. Not because he felt safer in the darkness, for his tower was dark no matter what time of day. It was because of the city outside, and what it became after dusk fell. Serenity seemed to sweep over the city, as boulangeries and boucheries closed their shop doors, returning home to their families to spend a night by the fire before tucking their children into bed. In this darkness, there was no shouting or yelling or shrieking to be heard from the streets below. There was only silence.

In that silence, Paris was transformed completely. What were before only dirty streets and shabby houses became magical pathways and safe havens in the shadows of the night. The ordinary and dull Seine glittered and shined with splendor in the moonlight, and small windows lit by meager candles glowed like hundreds of fairies flickering in the night. No living thing could be seen, apart from the occasional gypsy searching for refuge, or the pair of lovers walking the river at night. These small ripples in a calm river only made the scene look more magical.

With this miraculous stage set, Quasimodo was free to dream without interruption. No Master Frollo would come to reprimand him; no shout from below would wake him from his precious fairy tale. Paris became his imaginary playground, and he could immerse himself in everything that was beautiful without harsh reminders from reality to get in the way. At night, he could fool himself. Paris was beautiful, Notre Dame was beautiful-so why couldn't he be?

There was one night that was the most beautiful of them all. The one night a gorgeous and kind-hearted woman entered into his life for the first time-the gypsy Esmeralda. That night, her slender hand took his own, as she stared at his hideous face with those deep green eyes, and told him that he was not a monster-that he might be more then he believed. For the first time, Quasimodo had felt the compassion of a stranger. The stars were never more aligned then on that night. He couldn't take his eyes off the sky. The whole city- no, the whole _world _had such a luminous radiance that he felt as if he could reach out and grab some of it, and make it his own.

It was the night he knew he was in love.

All his life, Quasimodo pretended. In a world with no friends, he had to make his own. His mind made them for him. Sure, Frollo was there to teach him, occasionally listen to him, to make him a less sinful man. But he needed someone to tell things he would never tell Frollo, not in a million years. So he would find a statue engraved in stone and talk to it. Some days, it would be a conversation with an ancient priest; other days, a lament to a fierce-looking gargoyle. He would tell his stony companions his dreams, his fears, his wishes. He didn't really think himself mad. In the back of his mind, Quasimodo knew he was talking to someone who wasn't real. But who was going to object? The stone certainty wouldn't complain. The gargoyle would never point out blatantly that Quasimodo was talking to an inanimate object. So why should it matter? As unusual as it was, this was the lonely hunchback's only social comfort. Pretending and dreaming helped him pass the day-and in a strangely ironic way, it kept himself sane.

After Quasimodo met Esmeralda, his dreaming took a different form. He was cautious at first-no, of course she couldn't love someone like _him_-but as time passed, his fantasies expanded. But this time, they were not based solely on the imaginary. Someone, a real, live someone, had shown him kindness and compassion. He had seen it with his own eyes. It wasn't just a delusion. It got easier to look at himself at the mirror, knowing that someone might look upon that face, and not look away in disgust. The small bud of affection slowly blossomed into something fuller, something grander than before. The nights seemed longer, and Paris seemed even more unbelievably beautiful then before.

He imagined himself with her. The two of them walking through Paris, as Esmeralda lead him fearlessly through the glittering streets at night. They would become that couple he had seen so many times walking the river Seine, tenderly holding hands, having only eyes for each other. Her dark skin and black hair would seem even more stunning in the moonlight, as she softly smiled at him. And maybe-dare he think it?-a kiss. Her warm lips touching his, as they embraced each other, alone in the world. An impossible phenomenon for Quasimodo-yet, engulfed in the magic of the night, it didn't seem so impossible.

His dreams were innocent, pure, but completely new and foreign to him. He had never felt so much before. With every day passed without her, his affections only got deeper. Soon, Quasimodo found himself completely and severely in love with the gypsy Esmeralda. It got harder to live without her, as his dreams slowly inched their way into reality. He needed to see her again, to tell her everything she was to him, and all he wanted her to be. Poor Quasimodo had somehow fooled himself into thinking that Esmeralda could possibly be in love with him too.

Never had reality given a harder slap. Never had his world crashed down faster or harder. Never had his dreams been more shattered by the truth.

Poor boy. Poor, stupid, foolish boy. Could the fates have been more cruel? To let the naïve Quasimodo believe, for even a second, that someone so beautiful, so kind, so _perfect_, could love someone like him. Someone with a hunch for a back, a wart for an eye, logs for arms and legs. A man who aroused terror in an ordinary stranger by the mere sight of him- loved? No. He knew all along. No one could ever love a creature like him.

But this well-known fact did not lessen the sting. The unimaginable hurt did not get any lighter. Shocked and stupefied, he could no longer make believe. There was the proof right in front of him. Her dainty hands holding the firm hands of another, her emerald eyes gazing lovingly into his. Her lips pressed into the ones of another man. The perfect lips Quasimodo knew he could never touch, in reality or in his dreams. His dreams could do nothing for him now. Reality was too vivid and shone too brightly, and he had nowhere else to hide.

Quasimodo didn't feel hatred for either of the two. He couldn't. It wasn't their fault. How could they have known? How could they have known that they were breaking him apart with every second their lips touched? He couldn't hate them. Especially her. But it still hurt. It hurt more then he thought possible for his deformed frame could bear. His eyes involuntarily filled with crystal tears, as he grasped a wooden frame for support.

This was love. This was what two people shared within the towers of Notre Dame, as a third lingered sorrowfully deprived of it. This was what Quasimodo knew he could never have. This was what he knew he didn't deserve.

Never had the city seemed so abysmally dark then on that starless night. There was no magic, no glow among the broken cottages and damp streets. Nothing glittered, nothing shined. The river was just a river, the city was just a city, no different than any other city. There were no fantasies of love or even normality waiting for the hunchback that night. Quasimodo was only an ugly monster-a heartbroken demon of Notre Dame. Undeserving for heaven, cast out of hell. Stuck in limbo, forever a creature of the night. Cursed with the ability to love…but never to be loved in return.

He would live, and he would watch. He would hope, and he would wish. And he would love her to the end of his days.

But only on his own.


End file.
